


On the Count of Ten

by estike



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/pseuds/estike
Summary: That was always their rule: On the count of ten, he would disappear, and they'd be strangers again.
Relationships: Maximilien Robespierre/Ronan Mazurier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	On the Count of Ten

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely based on and inspired by the Takarazuka adaptation of 1789 Les Amants de la Bastille, and I promise you that I tried my best not to gather inspiration or be influenced by the historical counterparts of Robespierre and company. I attribute some of the inspiration to Toho's version of 1789, but this is mostly an ode to Tamaki Ryou's very beautiful nose and perfect take on Robespierre. 
> 
> I always wanted to write something with Ronan and Robespierre, so I'm not sure why it took me almost 5 years to do so.

On the count of ten, they would be strangers. That was the trick. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And Ronan Mazurier would be gone. Gone, and it would mean nothing personal. 

When the world is falling apart, some people need to have a compassionate heart to remember the victims as they count the dead - and some people need to steel their mind and put one brick on top of another restlessly until a whole new world would emerge under their building hands. 

That was their rule. It came on the count of ten. On the count of ten, anyone could become a stranger. Life only goes on if a few can keep their cool. 

And who will, if not Robespierre? His voice echoes through the ages, calling on those who are not yet here, and all those they already left behind. 

Sometimes, and only sometimes, he wished they were not constrained by the way history’s paths turned into a maze, left to be untangled by those to come. But wishing never made anything disappear. Actions did, on the other hand.  


He counted to ten. Watching Ronan bleed out on the ground. 

**☾☾☾**

Ronan hated him, as much as young and reckless boys could hate strangers for no reason other than their general, desperate anger at the whole world. He did not try to make it pretty, which Robespierre felt grateful for. Ronan never tried to make anything pretty, and that exact thing made the beauty of his passionate, young soul.

Like encountering fireworks. Explosive and beautiful, and over much too soon. And ultimately, meant to be admired from a distance. If you got too close, you risked getting hurt. 

Robespierre was the least favourite of their trio, and Ronan never failed to give voice to it. 

“Desmoulins is the heart of the group, Danton is the life of the group, and you are…” He gestured, vaguely. “Well, you must be something, right?”

“Maybe he just takes time to open up?” Danton butted in. He gripped his shoulder in a familiar manner, just a little too tight for comfort.

“Or maybe he thinks he’s too good for me,” Ronan thought. “I know that look in his eyes. And besides? If you really are about to start a revolution, you better get over being shy soon.” 

And it was how it should be. Camille practically picked this boy up on the side of the road like some abandoned puppy and offered him a bed to sleep in. (Or something along those lines, anyway.) Why would Robespierre force himself between the two of them, as if he did not know where to draw the line? 

Whenever they ended up meeting, it was sure on an accident. Robespierre knew he spoiled his mood every time: Because he was not as close to him as Camille, nor was he as easy-going as Danton, to make merry with anyone he crossed paths with. And ultimately, both of them knew that forming a friendship would be no priority. Not now. Not here.  


Ronan grinned at him. “Hey, Robespierre. How about, on the count of ten, you disappear.” 

And to the firework, you never say anything, because he is not there to listen to you, he is simply there to be silently admired. Robespierre knew the price of holding his tongue. He also knew that he should have had no place in Ronan’s story, which was already taken up by so many characters. 

**☾☾☾**

But sometimes it would not be the three of them, and he would go to the print shop alone only to stumble upon a Ronan Mazurier, dozing off with his face against the leg of the printing press. For a moment, nobody was watching, and he fetched the boy’s yellow coat from the other side of the room to curl it around his shoulder.

Ronan slapped his hand by reflex before he could even withdraw. 

He felt the need to explain himself without providing much of an explanation. “You fell asleep.”

“Yeah… because this is where I sleep,” Ronan snarled. “I don’t have a home.”

“I did not know that.” 

Ronan rolled his neck, scoffing, as he tried to properly wake himself up. “You don’t know much, do you?”

“Admittedly, following your life is more of Camille’s pastime.” Which, raised the question of whether Camille really did a great job at that. “I’m just here for a page."  


The boy raised his palm up, towards him. “Hand it over, be gone on the count of then, and leave the rest to me.”

Robespierre almost disappeared as he was bid. He was at the door when he turned to take a last look, at the dirty trousers, hair messy and dry like hay, and the yellow, yellow jacket.

“Ronan?”

His voice strengthened into a yell. “Six!”

“Do you not have anywhere else to sleep? Apart from the floor next to the printing press?”

Their eyes met for a brief moment. Asking felt like trespassing, somewhere in the lines of history he should not have ventured into. 

“I _had_ somewhere. Before. Got kicked out by my landlord. But what do you care! You never make an effort to look like you care. Same face, same nose, every day. At least look invested in our lives, if you want to play saviour. Eight!” 

**☾☾☾**

By the time he went back to fetch the pamphlet, Camille and Danton were there already. Yellow jacket abandoned on the press, Ronan was in the middle of some cheerful discussion with the two of them.

Naturally, the air froze as he stepped into the print shop. Ever since he met Ronan he had to realize that sometimes, rooms just did that. Turned into icy chambers as he walked in. There was something about Ronan’s energy that he had never encountered before, and it was not about his upbringing or his turn of phrase. It was about the way he attracted everyone around him despite everything. A magnetic, irresistible flicker of hope. The purity of his thoughts and actions made it a privilege even to be hated by this man. 

It was not really personal - although that should not make it any better. Robespierre never really questioned the source of Ronan's antipathy, as it would be a simple waste of time. He had the freedom to have his dislikes. 

Ronan only paid him a quick glance. Then, a disappointed “oh.” 

Reading the atmosphere, Danton insisted they all go and drink some wine. Camille agreed, either because he was starved for some fun, or knew that it was the easiest way to get out of the discomfort that nothing else but Robespierre’s appearance caused. 

“I’ll pass this time.” 

Ronan passed too, as he had no money for playing around - even if Danton was about to pay for his drinks. He urged the two of them to leave, however.

When they were gone, and he fetched the papers for Robespierre, pale against his skin, he said, in an unusually quiet manner. “I get it now. You are the one who acts.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are the one who does things. If you didn’t exist, nobody would do them. Danton? He makes jokes, he wastes his time, and he is drunk all the time. Desmoulins? He’s freshly engaged and passionate about everything but only for a moment, distracted every other second. But you… you don’t do anything and yet you do everything. You need to be the one who gets things done.” 

Robespierre swallowed. “Thank you.”

Which was, clearly, the wrong answer to give. Ronan scoffed.

“What? It does not mean that being boring as hell isn't the price you're paying. I wasn’t giving you a compliment.” 

“If you don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight, it’s not much but definitely more comfortable than the ground here, my…”

Ronan shoved the papers into his hand, offended by even the idea of the offer. “I would rather die than sleep with you, Robespierre. I won't be in your debt. Now on the count of ten, get out of my face. One…” 

**☾☾☾**

Before Robespierre could do as much as disappear, Danton caught up with them, swinging two full bottles of wine in his hand. 

“If you two do not come to the party, the party will come to you!” he claimed. 

Camille followed behind, with one last bottle in hand. His cheeks were red, with the gullible and yet mischievous smile he would often encounter back in their schooldays at midnight. With one hand, he gently turned Robespierre and forced him to walk back into the room. He sighed and allowed the two of them to momentarily take over. If they thought that this was what the situation needed, resisting would only make matters even more difficult. And besides, Ronan resisted anyway.  


“Marat won’t be happy about that,” he claimed. 

“Why, it’s almost dark, not to mention that if he brings a cup, he can be my guest.” 

They sat on the floor, in the dirt, with their backs of the wall, and there was something much more unruly about it than midnight snacks, trespassing in yet another unwritten line of history. Camille rested his head on his shoulder and lamented that Lucile could not be there, trying to get a hold of his hand. Then, not long after that, he already forgot about Lucile. His cheeks weren’t pink anymore, they burned red. 

It was hard to feel cold with so much around to warm them up. Ronan had been staring at the two of them for a while, clearly unamused and critical. 

But he was not the only one with his mind on their youth tonight. Camille counted his fingers, on one hand, to make sure that he had all five of them.  


“Maxime… remember… the midnight snacks?” He lost control of his neck for a moment but ended up placing it back on Robespierre’s shoulder. “It was a lot like tonight, but much more… I wonder, how would you say?"  


His eyes met with Ronan’s as he whispered back. “Frankly, I am not sure what you are talking about. I think it is time to go home.” 

Instead of listening to him, Camille decided to attach himself to Ronan, then to Danton a little later as he was shaken off a few times.  


Just as he was wondering why he decided to indulge his friend in this pointless night, Ronan’s face appeared next to him out of nowhere. "You think that the interesting part about you is all the things you refuse to say, huh? That it makes people wonder what you are hiding under all that nose and everything?"  


"I just don't find it necessary to..."

Ronan cut him off even before he could finish. "Well, good, because it just makes you boring." 

**☾☾☾**

Quietly, everyone disappeared. They came with three bottles, out of the blue and rowdy, and they disappeared without them, but just as swiftly as they came. Sitting on the ground started to hurt a long while ago, but so did trying to move his legs at all. 

Ronan grabbed his jacket. “I am about to make my bed, so don’t make me start the counting again,” he warned. 

When no answer came, he turned his head to look back at Robespierre. “Why do you always gawk at me like you want to suffocate the living hell out of me?”

He pointed at him, too, as he walked closer to make sure Robespierre knew who he was talking about. It was an interesting question, given that Ronan was the one who would always sacrifice some of his time to make sure Robespierre knew how much he hated him. He supposed it was easier to assume that an intention he did not understand was immediately hostile.  


“No. I’m staring at you. As you would stare at something remarkable.” 

Uncharacteristically, Ronan didn’t start to yell without delay. He downed the last bit of wine left at the bottom of a bottle. 

“So… midnight snacks, huh?” He had a lot on his mind.  


As if testing the waters, he pushed closer ever so slightly and pressed his lips on Robespierre’s. Overtaken by his favourable response, he soon found himself cupping his face, eyes closed, breathless. 

Ronan went back for seconds. Without any witnesses, it may have not happened at all. A secret that none would ever suspect is no hard secret to keep.

The boy’s nose brushed against his. “On the count of ten, we’ll be strangers again. Until then, we kiss.” 

And they were. On his way out, Robespierre offered a place to sleep at one more time, and - characteristically - Ronan welcomed it with some yelling, calling him an entitled bastard. The walk home washed the warmth away from his face. 

**☾☾☾**

There was no use for denial to come - because they were nothing more than strangers, counting themselves back to acquaintanceship. The next time they met, he did not look at Ronan with a hidden smile in his eyes, and the boy paid him no mind, as he always did. He even paid him some less than original insult on his nose, before the room would clear out, and he’d find Ronan sitting on the printing press, squeezing him between his thighs. 

Ronan’s hand was buried in his hair, trying to cause some disorder. He didn’t try to take the yellow jacket off, although he hated the colour, he hated it so much. It hurt his eyes. 

“Marat said I can’t keep sleeping on the floor,” Ronan suddenly said. “I’ll need to find a new bed.”

“Well, as I was saying earlier…”

Ronan pushed him away in the next moment. “I gave you my answer already. Now, let’s be strangers on the count of ten, and clear out. I need to stay behind, there’s still a surprise I need to print for Desmoulins later.”

That was the last he saw of Ronan for a while. And when he came back, he was full of bruises. Bruises, and rage.

“Midnight snacks? None of you has any self-awareness!"  


He did not even have enough time to count to ten before the secret police would raid them. 

**☾☾☾**

Ronan was most likely right about him because he let him disappear just as he entered his life. One moment, weeks ago, they’d be everything on the printing press, and the next, life would go on. He’d let Ronan go. He’d let him not return for weeks. He’d let him disappear. 

He’d let himself focus on their next step ahead. That was what he needed to do. Acknowledge, and move forward.  


So, when Ronan appeared next to him out of nowhere, looking much healthier - although still wearing that wretched yellow jacket -, he was almost taken by surprise.

“I thought you had enough of us.”

“Well, that is what they want, right? To divide you and me, so we are too busy fighting each other instead of taking them down. It is only when your voice and our sound in unison that they are forced to listen.” Ronan pushed him by the arm, ever so slightly. “You are smart and probably realized this a long time ago, so don’t say anything, now.” 

That evening, he finally accepted the long-standing invitation. In a world that only takes, self-restraint is a virtue that turns its back on us the quickest. 

“I don’t have a memory of ever being promised a tomorrow. I guess I almost forgot. Anything can disappear in the count of ten,” Ronan said. 

And so, on the count of ten, it was the two of them who disappeared from the sight of the others. 

**☾☾☾**

Some mornings were slow, and peaceful as if they belonged to a whole different era, to different people that had no worries in the world, mundane or beyond. Some mornings he watched Ronan sleep with his face buried in the pillow and the wounds healing pink on his naked back.  


At times when he would really want to challenge fate, he’d even trace them with his fingers lightly, as if they were feathers. Those times, Ronan would wake only to bicker and give him ten seconds. To apologize, to disappear, to fall silent. 

He did not feel like trespassing anymore. History will erase the lines it was not pleased with anyway. We believe we are able to create history for a temporary sense of purpose. Our stories will always stand taller than the reality behind them. Unfortunately, there was rarely anything poetic in the present.

It was nostalgia that elevated the rays of sunshine into art, filtering through his cold, narrow window in the morning, beckoning them to get up. Their secrets kept themselves because everyone around them was too busy guarding their own.

Ronan rolled around on the bed, sleepy, bordering on lazy. The tip of his nose coldly pressed into Robespierre’s neck. His hand found its way under the boy’s white shirt, warming his tummy.

“Alright. On the count of ten, we are strangers again,” Ronan murmured, as he began to peel his fingers away.

“Why?”

“Because I know you can do it. You are the only person who can do it. We count to ten, and that is all you need to focus on the things that really matter. If you of all people cannot keep your cool, who will?” 

A single kiss each time, until they got to ten. Then, the look in his eyes changed. 

“Well, I should not be saying it as my time is up, but maybe you should wear something other than yellow, today.”

“I have nothing else to wear.”

Robespierre placed the clothes in his lap before he’d leave the room, with an excuse, rather than an explanation. “These just happened to lie around, of course.” 

**☾☾☾**

It ended in those clothes. Red. New. It ended on the count of ten, too. Ronan laying in Camille’s arms, gasping for breath. Just as it started, except the distance was a lie.

That was always their trick. On the count of ten, they would be strangers again. And Ronan was right. He was the only one who could do it. Who else, if not Robespierre.

> One, a single moan, crying out in pain. Their eyes meet. 
> 
> Two, people crowd around. 
> 
> Three, Camille cradles him in his arms. 
> 
> Four, time stops and memories come flooding back.
> 
> Five, the idea that time can stop is a lie. 
> 
> Six, the soldiers are ordered to march away. 
> 
> Seven, Ronan smiles. 
> 
> Eight, they say a wordless goodbye.
> 
> Nine, he knows what their last step always was.
> 
> Ten, and Ronan Mazurier would be gone. 

That was their rule, and it always worked, without mistake. Every single time, they were rehearsing for the grand finale, the one you can only attempt once. Nothing, ever, is worth the same as the life of man. And so, stopping now and coming apart was also not worth it. It is truly just like encountering a firework. Explosive and beautiful, and over much too soon. Robespierre got too close, got hurt, and buried the pain deep.  


The waves of history swallow the lives of the insignificant the same as they swallow the exceptional. 


End file.
